


Get Knocked Down

by alivingfire



Series: tumblr stuff/short fics [5]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Football, Football Player Louis, Injury, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8112751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivingfire/pseuds/alivingfire
Summary: A yellow blur, a massive yellow blur, comes roaring out of nowhere. Harry, sickeningly enough, recognizes him: it’s Agbonlahor, a striker for Aston Villa and one of Louis’ favorite players on an otherwise terrible team. He’s hurtling toward Louis and, for a moment, the world stops. Harry feels the beer he’d been holding drop with a soft thump to the carpet. Louis looks so tiny, suddenly on the very big screen; how did anyone allow him out on the pitch with all those huge men? Harry can’t look away. He has to look away. He can’t. 


  Agbonlahor crashes headlong into Louis and the crunch can be heard all the way in Los Angeles. 

From the prompt: I want you to talk bout Harry's reaction to Louis getting hurt and throwing up at the football match.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Angst ahead, sorry :)

Most days, Harry loves his job. It’s the ultimate dream, right? He and his best mates get paid to tour the world, their band name has been up in lights on the _Madison Square Garden marquee_ , he’s got houses on multiple continents and enough money to keep his future grandkids’ grandkids afloat. He’s a literal goddamn _rockstar,_ it’s not really like he has room to complain about anything. 

But, then again, when the spotlights turn on there’s no room for other things. Soft things, easy things. Being a rockstar is loud, and according to the laws of rockstardom there’s no time for the quiet parts of life: holding hands, midnight kisses, naked pancakes at two in the morning. Things that, for normal people, might not be the end of the world to have to miss. Things like being in the same country as your boyfriend, things like having to skip said boyfriend’s big charity match because he has to be very publicly seen at Cindy Crawford’s house instead. His management claims that it’s just to get in a bit of promo for her new magazine cover, that it couldn’t possibly be any other day and they didn’t choose this just for him to have to miss the match; Harry, naturally, doesn’t believe a word they say. He kisses Louis a good luck on the Heathrow tarmac and texts him another one as Louis is leaving for the match, and hates his management with all his being all the while.  

Then again, if Harry’s gonna miss Louis running around and getting sweaty with a horde of other muscular men, he’s gonna do it in style. The cinema room of his and Louis’ Malibu home already has the pre-match commentary playing on the wall-to-wall screen. Cindy’s here after their Instagram photoshoot this morning along with her sons, and so is Jeff and Glenne and Preston and assorted other LA friends here to watch with him. Liam’s on the way over, he’s bringing beer and a few more people, and Niall and Zayn said they’d keep Harry updated on the Glasgow end of things. It’s nearly a party; hell, it _is_ a party, and Harry sends Louis a video of the small crowd yelling a _good luck Louis!_ followed by Harry turning the camera to himself and whispering, _good luck, boo, love you so much._ Louis responds with a quick selfie, the green and white stripes of his team’s jersey bright against the tan of his skin, the shine of his grin even brighter, holding up a thumbs up. Harry sends one back, then grabs a beer and a plate of nachos as he settles in to watch the players start to warm up. 

It’s a good morning, the time difference between LA and Scotland leading to a rambunctious group day-drinking at the Stylinson family house, a before-noon buzz that’s led them all to cheering every time the camera shows Louis on the bench and catcalling Harry when he stands to get more mini hamburgers and suddenly stops in his tracks, gaping at the screen when it shows Louis warming up off to the side of the pitch, bending over in obscene white shorts to touch his toes. Harry doesn’t realize it’s even happening until Glenne throws a tortilla chip at the back of his head and it sticks in his hair, the rest of the group giggling at his dopey expression. 

The room explodes in cheers when Louis makes his match debut and Preston catches it all on video, texting it immediately to Harry who forwards it directly on to Louis so he can watch it after the match. Harry accepts a high five from Liam, who’s sat beside him, and then they settle in to watch Louis do the thing he does second best in all the world. 

Charity matches are strange, because everyone on the pitch is competitive enough to want to win but laughing at each other at the same time. Harry grins when Louis touches a pass from a teammate quickly back to the center when a professional player comes charging at him, Louis dancing out of the way and smirking like a matador in front of a bull. It looks chilly and muddy there, Louis shaking out his wrists like he does when he’s cold, and the crowds in the stands are bundled up and bouncing for warmth. 

That’s what Harry’s focusing on, when it happens. He’s watching Louis hop from toe to toe and rub his hands up and down his arms and then he’s running, sprinting, crossing in the wide open space in front of the goal. A teammate sees him, sends him a beautiful cross pass. Louis stops it with the toe of his boot. Turns. 

A yellow blur, a _massive_  yellow blur, comes roaring out of nowhere. Harry, sickeningly enough, recognizes him: it’s Agbonlahor, a striker for Aston Villa and one of Louis’ favorite players on an otherwise terrible team. He’s hurtling toward Louis and, for a moment, the world stops. Harry feels the beer he’d been holding drop with a soft thump to the carpet. Louis looks so tiny, suddenly on the very big screen; how did anyone allow him out on the pitch with all those huge men? Harry can’t look away. He has to look away. He can’t. 

Agbonlahor crashes headlong into Louis and the crunch can be heard all the way in Los Angeles. 

Louis falls hard and doesn’t get up. Harry, as though in retaliation, feels himself stand. His body is flooded with something: not quite rage, not quite hatred. Fear, yes, a lot of that. Maybe a little hatred, too, when the commentators start joking about the boybander of course being the one to cry in the charity match. 

The camera zooms in; Louis is pressing his face to the grass and clenching his teeth, holding in screams that would just make everything worse. Harry does that for him, too, his throat scratching with an awful noise. 

Hands find Harry’s shoulders, rub soothingly at his back. Liam’s on the phone, Harry doesn’t care with whom or why, only that the camera hasn’t left Louis, he’s rolling and clutching his knee and _no one is helping him, what the_ fuck- 

“H, you gotta calm down,” says Jeff, and Harry. 

Harry falls into his seat, grasping at his face. Doesn’t deign to answer: what could he possibly say? Louis on the screen is rolling, still, his teammates in green trying to help him to his feet. He stands, and Harry knows that face: he’s hurting, he’s hurting badly, but he’s not gonna let anyone see. He’s not going to let himself be the joke, not with the whole sporting world watching; his pride’s too heavy for that. 

Agbonlahor runs up to Louis, checks on him, kisses his head as he limps off the field. 

Harry still feels like a vice is around his lungs. Someone needs to check on him, somebody has to- he’s _not okay_ and he _needs someone with him_ - 

“Ni and Zayn are trying to get down there, Haz,” Liam promises, the phone still to his ear. “He’ll have people with him, he’ll be okay.” 

Harry’s not with him, though. Not that he could change or do anything, but _he’s not there._

Louis is smiling ruefully on screen; he smiles and waves like nothing’s wrong, keeps doing that up until the moment he vomits and collapses. 

The fans like to coo about Harry and Louis’ mirroring; little do they know, it’s deeper than they even thought. 

Harry, five thousand miles away, does the same exact thing. 

… 

The private plane is flying hundreds of miles an hour, and still it’s not fast enough. 

Liam and Preston are murmuring quietly to each other a few seats away, letting Harry sit and brood. It’s an Azoff plane, one Jeff had called up immediately after seeing Harry fall to the floor in front of the toilet and throw up until he was gasping, and he’d waved away Harry’s feeble attempts at paying for it. “I’ll owe you for something later,” he’d said, pushing Harry out the door, promising to clean and lock up. Cindy and her boys already had trash bags in hand. “It’s all good. Go to your boy.” 

His boy. 

There’s wifi on the plane, not great wifi but good enough, and Harry’s on Twitter. Some of their fans are telling Agbonlahor they hope he gets cancer for hurting Louis; ironic, as the charity match had raised money for leukemia. 

The plane is moving, but Harry still feels too far away. 

… 

Louis is at the house in Cheshire, along with his mum, Lottie, Fizzy, Anne, Gemma, and Niall and Zayn. It should be loud, with all those people; it isn’t. They dole out a quiet round of hugs to Harry and Liam as they enter the kitchen, but Harry doesn’t linger - he’s up the stairs to their bedroom within two minutes of Preston parking the car. 

Louis looks tiny in their massive bed; he always does, but like this, quiet and hurt, his suntanned skin dark against the white duvet, he’s never looked so small. His knee is wrapped in a massive swaddle of ice packs and wraps, propped up on pillows. Louis is staring petulantly at the mess of bandages like it’ll go away if he hates it hard enough. 

“Lou,” Harry says, and Louis automatically shifts like he’s going to stand up. His face contorts in pain and Harry’s instantly there at his side, shushing him and crawling in close. “Hey, baby. I’m here. I’m so sorry, but I’m here.” 

Louis lets himself be held, goes for nonchalant when he asks, “How’s Cindy? How’s Jeff? Go to, _ah_ ,” he winces when his knee shifts on the pillow, “any good parties?” 

“Fine, fine, and no,” Harry answers. He kisses Louis once, twice, three times, lingers a moment. “If I ask you how you feel, will you lie?” 

“I’m fine, Haz,” Louis sniffs, and Harry _tsks_. “I will be, at least.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Harry says again, combing Louis’ hair back. It’s disheveled and wavy, and Harry wonders if he’s been ruffling it out of frustration. It feels like it, snarled around his fingers. He starts combing out the tangles. 

“For what?” Louis asks. He prods at Harry’s shoulder until they’re curled together comfortably, Harry not even bothering to shed his boots. He’ll send the duvet out to be cleaned later if he has to, he’s not moving now. 

“For not being here. _Fuck_ , Lou, I should’ve been here.” 

“Management wouldn’t let you come, Haz. You know that.” 

“Not publicly, maybe. I still could’ve done it.” Harry pushes his fringe back off his face in frustration, says, one more time, “I should’ve _been here_.” 

“Hey,” Louis says, grabbing Harry’s hand, trapping it against his chest. It’s warm, and his heart beats against the back of Harry’s hand like it’s trying to make a point. “You’re here now.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, pressing as close to Louis as he can. He kisses him again, just for good measure, a _hello_ and an _I’m sorry_  and _I’ll kill him if you ask me to_  and an _I know you’ll never ask me to_. “I’m here now.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://alivingfire.tumblr.com/post/141824543496).


End file.
